Stereotypes, stubbornness and … road trips?

Whether true or not, there’s certain generalized stereotypes associated with people from different parts of the country.

For instance, Southerners like sweet tea, college football and fried foods. New Englanders all vote Democrat and went to Harvard. Californians are either hippie surfers, movie stars, or tech gurus. Floridians are either retired people from up North, or complete whack-jobs. (Don’t deny it! We’ve all seen the “Florida man” headlines.)

If you hail anywhere from Texas to Montana — I’m gonna assume you like your steak rare, wear boots and drive a pick-up truck. Pacific North West? Well, you guys all drink Starbucks, cheer for the Ducks and listen to grunge music.

But I grew up in Ohio and Michigan and as a solid Mid-Westerner, I can tell you the one thing we love … is a road trip. (We also think Vernor’s ginger ale is a cure-all and call anything mixed with mayo a “salad,” but for the purpose of this column, we’re gonna focus on the former.)

I have lived in South Carolina for nearly 20 years. My husband is a SC native, my boys were born in Easley and Greenville. Over the years I have learned how to make “real” mac and cheese, I have adopted the term “soda” rather than “pop,” and have even been known to let slip the occasional “y’all.”

But that Mid-Western blood runs deep and every year, around July, I get that itch to pile my kids (and a week’s worth of clothes) in the car and hit the road.

According to GPS, it’s a 12 hour drive from Easley to my Mother’s home in Michigan. Now, that time is a bit deceiving as it fails to take into account stopping for gas, bathroom breaks, the fact that the entire state of North Carolina is constantly under construction, or the simple realities of driving across the country with two kids. Bottom line? Even if you white-knuckle it — and the traffic gods are with you — it takes a solid 14.

I’m game.

My husband, however, is not. In his mind, anything six hours plus is not a “road trip” — it’s a flight. And despite me having (successfully) made the trek for the past decade or so, every year, he still begs me to fly instead.

He always tells me his worst fear is we’re going to end up broken down on the side of I-75, hundreds of miles from home, just me stuck on the freeway with two little kids.

Ya’ll, I never thought it would actually happen.

While I have been accused of impulsivity in the past, I do try and be somewhat responsible when it comes to my cross-country trips. For instance, I knew the car was making a weird thumping sound and needed brakes so I (responsibly) took “Karen the Subaru” in for service before hitting the road. The mechanic fixed the brakes and reported the thumping sound to be related to a minor axle issue that would cost more to fix than the car was worth.

“I’d drive it,” he said. “With that many miles (167K), the car’s gonna die well before that axle gives.”

In hindsight, he was right …

Fast forward to a week later: Eleven hours into our adventure, Karen the Subaru drove her last mile. On I-75 North, just past the exit for Lima, Ohio, my gas pedal suddenly ceased to work and (all) the dashboard lights lit up like Christmas morning. I flipped the emergency blinkers on and guided her to the shoulder.

“Are you gonna call Dad?” my kids asked.

Um, nope. Absolutely not. Not in 1,000 years.

Instead, I called AAA.

After a tow to a service station, the mechanic pronounced Karen dead. Her timing belt had snapped and the pistons, unregulated, had done their damage. The engine would never start again. My husband’s warning (or should I call it a premonition?) had come true.

And I will never live this down. In the history of marriage, there is no bigger I TOLD YOU SO than I had coming from my sweet husband.

Take it, honey, you’ve earned this one.

In the end, it all worked out. Being only three hours from our destination, my Mom was able to fetch us from Lima and I ended up buying a new car while in Michigan. (A very handsome Nissan from Canada who we’ve named “Chuck.” Get it? Chuck the Canuck?)

The vacation wasn’t a total wash either: We still managed everything on our “to do” list including The Detroit Zoo, a nice dip in Lake Huron and a lovely bonfire with old friends. (And yes, I did eventually call my husband to report Karen’s untimely demise.)

To his credit, even upon our return, I have yet to hear the dreaded “I told you so.” Perhaps because that’s another Southern stereotype I should have included earlier: Understanding, patience and love.

It should match up well with that Mid-Western one I forgot to mention … being incredibly stubborn.

Either way, I promised next year, I’ll book a flight.